Cat and Mouse
by Odainath
Summary: In the morning Hotch tells her that he is 'very happy to see her alive.' In the afternoon, he adds that while he is 'very happy to see her alive, perhaps it would be best if they never see each other again.'


**Cat and Mouse**

By: Odainath

* * *

 **Author's notes:** So, yet another ' _what Emily did when she was overseas_ ' fic. I'm using a fair amount of head!canon for this fic so purists, read at your own risk. Warnings-wise there might be a small amount of language, allusions to former drug use and very mild lemons. This begins after 'Lauren' though I've taken some liberties with the ending.

I hope you enjoy.

 **Summary:** In the morning Hotch tells her that he is 'very happy to see her alive.' In the afternoon, he adds that while he is 'very happy to see her alive, perhaps it would be best if they never see each other again.'

* * *

" _But the truth is, we do think like them. The question is: how different are we? Us and them?"_

 _Emily Prentiss, 'Open Season.'_

* * *

 **1.**

In the morning Hotch tells her that he is _'very happy to see her alive.'_

In the afternoon Hotch adds that while he is _'very happy to see her alive, perhaps it would be best if they never see each other again.'_

She's only been out of her induced coma for a few hours so it takes a while for the words to fully sink in. When they do, it's all she can do not to reach up and stuff them back into Hotch's mouth, to force him to take them back, to make him stop this _nightmare_ from happening. But she knows she can't because, despite popular belief, Hotch can't fix everything.

So, instead, she nods her head. _Once. Twice. Three times._ "If that's what you think is right," a voice says. One that sounds awfully like her own. "The team?" she adds.

He looks the most uncertain she's ever seen him before and glances down at his shoes, shuffles his feet. "Well…"

Realisation hits her like a punch to the stomach. "Oh, I see. That bad?"

Hotch looks up, pain evident in every line of his face and reaches out to clasp her hand. It's out-of-character and part of her feels like crying _yet again._ Because she must leave in a matter of hours. Away from the very few people that she trusts, that she places under the label of 'family.'

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, so soft she can barely hear him. "So, _so_ sorry."

She shrugs her shoulders, trying to implement the infamous 'Prentiss compartmentalisation' skills and glances around the room. Her backpack rests on one of the waiting chairs and she laughs again. "You've brought my ready bag," she comments.

He attempts a grin. "Always prepared."

-o-

"Does anyone else know?" she asks later as they drive toward the airport. She rests her forehead against the window of the government car. A dark sedan. One that can blend in with 'normal' traffic.

Hotch glances across the car and his lips twist into a frown as they fall on Emily's broken figure. It reminds him too much of the hospital bed, of the machines, of the doctor telling him that _'they really weren't too sure she would make it.'_ It makes him feel sick if he's truly honest with himself.

"JJ," he answers finally. "Only JJ and I."

Emily exhales a long breath and turns toward him, offers a smile that – happily – looks like others that she's beamed across the bullpen over the years. "What the hell _is_ that girl doing at the Pentagon?"

-o-

Hotch leaves her alone at the airport and for that Emily feels oddly grateful. Grateful that he trusts her, _despite everything_ , not to make a colossal stuff-up and get on the wrong plane. In the bag slung across her front she carries a French passport and knows she can pass for any one of the tourists that bustle around the airport. Her undercover skills haven't got that rusty yet.

She walks through the shops that crowd the airport and – on a whim – stops at a travel store. There are postcards lining the walls and she pauses for a moment, debates with herself, before buying a sheaf that makes the cashier give a soft _'woah'_ when she pushes them across the counter.

"Write a fair bit do you, love?" the man asks.

Emily doesn't respond, just acts like she can't understand a word he says. The cashier gives up after a few more attempts probing and hands her the postcards and her change.

* * *

She hesitates before she begins to write. She can hardly put _'Hey JJ, it's Emily. Having a fantastic time.'_ But it needs to be something that JJ will recognise. _Cheeto-breath,_ she scribes eventually. On a postcard with an image of the White House on the front. Two words _: thank you._

(When JJ receives the card the following week, she reads it quickly, thinks Emily a fool for taking such a risk, then bursts into tears.)

* * *

 **2.**

Emily takes a flight to South Africa where she buys three plane tickets: one to Australia, one to Thailand and one to London. All in the same name and all around the same time. She listens to her aliases' names being called over the loudspeaker and even gives a half-smile as the speaker clearly gets more irritated until, eventually, they give up. She wanders about the airport, examining stores and flicking through books until her true flight is called.

The attendant doesn't spare her a second glance as she places her ticket and passport on the table and she hurries inside and to her seat. Once there, she grabs the book she'd also bought and flips it open. It's a corny romance novel; complete drivel, but readable and she sinks further into her chair.

The flight is turbulent and she finds herself flung about the plane, her stomach churning. She focuses on the book, willing herself to fall into the world of fiction but finds herself being drawn back into reality. The attendant looks like JJ, right down to the brilliant blue eyes, and every time she passes down the aisle Emily wants to sink into the floor. So, she keeps her attention on the book. After reading a particularly ridiculous chapter she glances out the window and sees that it's snowing as they fly into London. A harsh storm by all accounts and when they land and are being shepherded off the plane she's almost knocked over by the wind.

"All right?" a stranger asks, before she can topple to the ground.

She nods as she stands upright and straightens her shoulders. "All good," she responds.

He gives her a huge grin that she can't help but return.

-o-

London is absolutely _freezing_ and before she leaves the airport she splurges on a long overcoat. The bag Hotch had given her contained enough money for that luxury. The taxi ramp outside is a mess of tourists, all jostling with each other for the next ride, but she manages to cut through the crowd and into the nearest one.

"Where to?" the cab driver asks, glancing in his rear vision mirror.

His eyes widen and she realises with a jolt how truly dreadful she must look. To his credit he doesn't comment and – after a few moments – she gives him the name of a cheap hotel she and Clyde used to rent years ago.

"That one?" he says incredulously, "been shut for years."

Emily rolls her eyes. "Is it still a hotel?" she asks eventually.

He nods, though she notices that he's fighting to hide a smirk. After all, she's the tourist, maybe a business woman who is way behind the times. Who looks like she's come off some sort of a binge. "Yup," he answers.

"There it is, then."

He winks but nevertheless pulls out from the curb and begins whistling to the radio. Emily relaxes into the backseat and looks up at the ceiling of the car. Wonders how the hell this was happening.

-o-

The hotel isn't much but it's enough and Emily falls face-first onto the bed, still fully dressed and sleeps for the next fourteen hours.

* * *

 _Cheeto-breath,_

 _My body is getting used to its new time clock._

 _xxx_

* * *

 **3.**

Emily still has safety-deposit boxes filled with cash from her Interpol days scattered across the country and she stuffs her bag full of tightly-bound notes of fifties and hundreds. Since her arrival in the United Kingdom she's dyed her hair, bought new clothes, had three new passports made and knows that no one would associate her with fallen Agent Emily Prentiss.

It's when she empties the box in Cornwall, she feels the first flicker of doubt.

 _Darling,_ the note reads, in Clyde's perfect penmanship. _Good to see you again. I was most disappointed to hear of your death. Consider this a gift._

There's more bundles of cash and a gun but there's also a surveillance photo of Doyle. He's inside a car with the window down, arm dangling out the window, a cigarette in his hand. She can't tell exactly _where_ the photo has been taken but Clyde deems it necessary for her to know and she has (albeit grudgingly) learned to trust his judgement. Where Doyle was concerned in any case. She closes her eyes, glares at the back of her eyelids, hates this man that has forced her away from people she loved and trusted.

Then she takes the photo of Doyle and the gun but leaves the cash behind.

-o-

Clyde opens the box a few hours later and all he can think is _'goddamn stubborn.'_

* * *

 _Cheeto-breath,_

 _I'm seeking sunshine. I might even get a tan._

 _xxx_

* * *

 **4.**

Emily winds her way through Europe and arrives in Italy in time for summer. There she hires a car so she can travel cross-country. She's still got wads of money and pays for overnight motels with cash and leaves no trail. It's oddly liberating. She can tune the radio to whatever station she wants, she can sing along to whatever song she chooses, she can even sleep in. Despite her better self-judgement, she also speaks to old contacts, asks them about Doyle. Has he still got any operations overseas? Is he still in America? The million-or-so questions continue to run through her mind everyday and as more time passes she comes to hate how her contacts seem to know nothing.

When she gets to Rome and passes the American Embassy, guilt hits her with the force of a train. Her mother, she reads later in a local newspaper, has finished her holiday but stayed in Italy, working on some sort of trade agreement. Sure, the two of them had never been particularly close but nonetheless she was in the same city as her _mother_ who may or may not know if she was even alive. Briefly, she wonders if her mother had gone to her funeral. Had she stood with her father as the coffin was lowered to the ground? Or had they both deemed it 'too difficult' and stayed where they were?

She parks the rental car and slams the heel of her palm against the steering wheel. Gritting her teeth, she hefts her bag over her shoulder, folds her coat over her forearm and stalks down the street.

Away from her mother. Away from everything.

-o-

On the plane to Prague she finds herself crying and cannot quite explain why. Her fellow passengers give sympathetic glances across aisles and over seats and – eventually – she simply turns away and stares out the window.

* * *

 _Cheeto-breath,_

 _Family can be painful. xx_

JJ sits down heavily when she reads Emily's words and looks down again at the card. It's postmarked 'Italy' and while part of her curses Emily for being careless, another knows she would have written this on autopilot and just hurled it in a mailbox, not caring who read it as so few would understand. She wouldn't be in Italy any longer.

' _Family_.' The word resounds with JJ as she and Emily had spent nights together while on cases, sharing hotel rooms and exchanging stories. Emily had learned of JJ's sister's death; she'd learned of Emily's teenage pregnancy and abortion. Emily knew of the pressure JJ placed upon herself, to succeed at sport _and_ at academics and she learned how Emily had been shifted around schools, blending in however she could. She told Emily how her family was still close; Emily said she hadn't seen her mother in two years.

She traces the tip of her finger over the word 'Cheeto-breath' and wishes she could drag Emily back across the ocean and into their lives.

* * *

 **5.**

Emily is not particularly surprised to find Clyde sitting in her living room. He's laid out photographs of Doyle and other past associates on her coffee table. She doesn't return the smile he greets her with and turns away, hanging up her bag and coat on the hallway hook.

"'Hello' to you, too," he reprimands, as she walks into the kitchen.

"I don't want to know," she says, holding up her hand. "I want nothing to do with…"

"Bollocks," Clyde interrupts. She turns her back to open a cupboard, searching for coffee beans, ignoring Clyde's glare. "He's trying to find Declan," he continues.

Emily whirls around, eyes wide but soon regains her composure. "He won't be able to," she says eventually.

Clyde shakes his head and she falls silent, looks at the wooden floor. "He can. He will and we need to stop him," he continues, "then, if need be, you can leave again." Emily bites her bottom lip, doesn't raise her head and jumps slightly when Clyde crosses the room to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Em," he says softly, "Please."

She nods, hating how she's well-and-truly been dragged in. How she loves that as much as loathes it.

-o-

Her Prague flat becomes a 'centre' for Doyle with information from different sources and contacts streaming through the laptops that Clyde sets up in her living room. Together, they filter through the seemingly never-ending stream and slowly begin to gather a shaky idea of where Doyle may be and where he may be headed next. They even settle into a sort of routine. Clyde leaves her to go for a run every morning, but leaves her a coffee on the kitchen bench. She makes breakfast, he makes lunch, they take turns to cook dinner.

"There's a girl we can talk to," he greets her with one morning, shaking rain from his hair, "then we need to leave."

Emily knows he's right. They've been in Prague far too long already.

-o-

Clyde's source leads them to Austria. It's Emily's first time back in the field and she laughs as she strides into a designer shop and hears Clyde give an appreciative whistle. Her skirt is shorter than usual, her heels high and she feels the most confident she's felt in a very long time.

"Looking good, Em," Clyde breathes into her ear as she stops at the counter.

She shoots him a fake glare that disappears as the store attendant greets her from the other side of the store.

"Can I help you?" the clerk asks, batting her eyelashes at Clyde who gives a dashing smile before pushing his Interpol identification across the counter along with a photo of Doyle.

"Seen this man?" he says.

Her jaw falls open for a second and Emily rolls her eyes, points at the image of Doyle. "This man," she echoes, tapping the photograph. "Have you seen him or not?"

The clerk looks from one of them to the other, swallows hard. "Is he a bad man?" she asks finally.

Emily rolls her eyes, wonders briefly at others' people naivete.

* * *

 _Cheeto-breath,_

 _We're learning more and more. xx_

JJ frowns when she reads the postcard. Wonders at the 'we' of 'we're.'

* * *

 **6.**

Ian is clever, Emily had always known that, but it doesn't make it any less irritating when yet _another_ lead goes dead. He's filtered money through the Cayman Islands and even the best minds can't track the funds any further. Emily hurls her jacket onto the bed and slips down her jeans until she's standing in her bedroom in only her underwear. She catches her reflection in the cheval glass in the corner of the room and takes a step back, horrified.

Scars cover her body, from the deep red and purple mess on her stomach to the neat clover on her left breast. She steps closer to the mirror and leans forward, catching sight of pale scars at her hairline, courtesy of unsubs and car accidents; to her arm where a bullet had grazed, leaving a white gash. She turns to the side, eyeing the scar that runs across her shoulder blade. Her hair is pulled back and she rips out the tie and teases her hair forward, covering the marks at her hairline and grabs a dressing gown from a bedside cabinet to tie firmly around her waist, hiding all the ugly marks.

She's yearning for a cigarette and heads to the living room where she searches every pocket of Clyde's coat until she finds the inevitable pack. Lacking matches, she lights it with the gas hotplate and cracks open the window. Which is where Clyde finds her half-an-hour later, a cigarette stub in one hand, tears running down her cheeks.

"I thought you'd given up," he comments idly, nodding towards the cigarette.

Emily barely spares him a second glance. "I thought I'd given up a lot of things."

-o-

Clyde rushes in later that night, wakes her, tells her to get dressed and get a move on. She's still half-asleep, groggy and barely registers as he hurls her belongings into a bag, throws files into a briefcase and packs up her laptop. He warns her that _somehow_ Doyle knows that Clyde is looking for him and that he's placing 'feelers' out to figure out where he is. How he doesn't think that Doyle knows that she's alive but he's not sure so they need to get a move on and get the hell out.

"Em!"

He's holding her laptop bag in one hand, briefcase in the other and she snaps back into reality at his harsh tone. It's unlike Clyde to raise his voice. She opens her mouth to apologise but his eyes aren't focused on her face but rather on the clover seared on her breast. She's dressed in a tank top and shorts and there's very little fabric hiding the scars now.

"Em, we need to go," he repeats, gentler this time.

She nods and keeps her head down as she swings her legs around, rises to her feet.

"I'll wait in the living room," Clyde says softly.

She doesn't respond and waits for him to leave before throwing on any clothes at hand and grabbing what Clyde may have missed. She finds him leaning against the wall of the hallway and they walk in silence down the flight of stairs toward the waiting car.

"I'm sorry, Em," he says suddenly, as she settles into the passenger seat, looks out the window. "I had no idea…"

"Please don't, Clyde," she interrupts, shaking her head. "Just… please."

To his credit, he doesn't push, just pulls out into traffic and presses his foot down on the accelerator.

* * *

 _Cheeto-breath,_

 _Embarrassment is the lowest form of being._

The words run through JJ's head as she sits down at her desk, waiting for her secretary to begin talking. She pays attention but her mind keeps being drawn back to the words scrawled on the postcard.

* * *

 **7.**

An old associate of Doyle's is staying in Belgium; a dealer that specialises in automatic weapons. Clyde's information indicates Doyle had been in recent contact. Also, per Clyde's information, he had a penchant for dark-haired women in short dresses and high heels. Which is how Emily finds herself holding a champagne flute and simpering at the man's every word. He is crude and vulgar, repulsive really, but she and Clyde needed intelligence and… well.

" _There's no changing how I feel right now, is there?"_

" _No. But it helped the case. And you did what you had to."_

She almost wants to laugh as she remembers her conversation with Hotch. _'Did what you had to.'_ How many times had she justified her actions with those exact words? How many times had Ian justified his? Clyde?

"Come."

The man tugs at her arm and she allows herself to be led towards his car. They walk via a short alley, she gives a high-pitched giggle, pretends to stumble. It appears to be going well until he slams her against the brick wall and lands one punch beneath her ribs and another to her face. The air is knocked from her lungs and she doubles over gasping for air, giving him time to strike another blow to her back, sending her crashing to the ground. Adrenalin pulses through her veins and she tries to get back to her feet, to fight back. She's on all-fours, nearly upright again, when he kicks out, his shoe connecting with her ribs with enough force that she hears a _'crack.'_

" _Hello, Lauren,"_ he sneers, now circling around her, rolling her onto her back with the toe of his shoe. She winces at the cold pavement against her skin and the shattered glass from many bar brawls digging into her flesh. "Good to see you again."

He stomps on her stomach, sending pain through her body but she forces herself to focus, closes her eyes, tenses her muscles as he laughs _yet again_ , telling her how he'll use her to get in Ian's good books, how his loyalty will never be doubted, how-

Until, suddenly, his tirade stops.

She opens her eyes, wondering what the _hell_ is going on. Clyde is above her and she watches as he lands stellar blows to the man's gut, nose and chin before kicking him down onto the pavement next to her. There, he withdraws the gun tucked into his jeans and fires two bullets. One to the head, one to the heart. Kill shots.

It's over in a matter of seconds.

"Clyde?" she whispers.

He's visibly shaking in anger but at her voice his attention turns to her. He crouches down, looks to debate with himself before he pulls her up, drapes his jacket over her shoulders and shepherds her into a waiting car. He drives too quickly back to their hotel and keeps a hand at her back as he ushers her into the elevator and to their suite.

She doesn't say a word and lets herself be guided into the bathroom. Clyde unzips her dress and it pools at her feet in a messy puddle. He reaches around her and turns on the tap, getting the water running hot enough until steam billows between the two of them.

"Emily?" he says suddenly, snapping her from her torpor. Clyde nods towards the shower and gives her a gentle nudge.

"Yes, of course," she mutters, kicking the dress away.

He waits, unsure, and she nods towards the door. "I'll be fine."

Clyde pauses for a moment, still hesitant, though eventually leaves the room. Emily strips her remaining clothing and steps beneath the searing water, so hot its almost painful. She scrubs until she's red raw but the exhaustion that had been nipping at her heels overwhelms and she slides down the wall to the floor. She curls her knees up to her chest, leans her forehead against the tiles. Bruises were already rising on her skin, remnants of her latest encounter and she finds herself shaking as the adrenalin fades. She knows Clyde will be pacing outside the door, but doesn't move and isn't surprised when he opens the door a crack to glance inside. His expression falters, uncertain, and he inches forward, takes a towel from the rack.

"Here, Em," he whispers. Softly, softly. He doesn't want to startle her.

She still doesn't move and closes her eyes, turns away. Long fingers curl around her wrist and she barely registers as she's pulled to her feet. Clyde wraps the towel around her body and grabs another to catch the drops dripping from her hair. Neither speak as he steers her into the bedroom. Emily knows she should feel embarrassed but can't bring herself to feel anything as he dries every drop of water from her body.

He takes her nightgown from beneath her pillow and she lifts her arms like a little girl to allow him to pull it down.

"Can I do anything?" he asks finally, pulling the bed covers back.

She begins to shake her head, then stops. "Just stay?" she says finally. "Until I fall asleep?"

He reaches out to take her hand. "Of course."

-o-

She wakes three hours later, blankets pulled to her chin, a glass of water resting on her bedside table. Clyde has dragged a chair from the living room and sits across from her, also asleep. His brow creases and his mouth turns downward in a frown as he shifts slightly from side-to-side, evidence of uneasy dreams. A transparency flickers across her vision, in the form of another hotel room years ago when he had kept watch while she slept.

He had fallen asleep then also.

* * *

 _Cheeto-breath,_

 _Ever feel like no matter what, you'll always be dragged back in?_

JJ has many contacts and she uses them now, looking for _anything._ An Interpol connection links her to news of a dead weapons dealer, an old associate of Doyle's. Shot almost assassination-style outside a high-class nightclub. She gains the security footage from the club and sifts through the images _._ She finds her weapons dealer, sleazing onto any women in a tight dress. Most women ignore him but one stays.

One that makes sure to keep her face away from the cameras. One with smooth, alabaster skin and dark hair.

One that leaves with the man.

 _Always be dragged back in._

JJ feels slightly nauseous and books the next flight to Paris.

* * *

 **8.**

Emily gets a message from a local source to meet a contact at a small café. She debates with herself, weighing the pros and cons, before throwing on a white coat and grabbing her briefcase. After all, she's got this far. The crowd jostles her from side-to-side but she keeps her head up until she gets to the café and sits down at an outside table. The waiter greets her mere seconds later and she places an order for a latte and settles into her chair. She waits longer than she expects, orders another latte, and after an hour she's ready to pack up and leave when she sees a familiar blonde walking towards her. Elation floods through her at the familiar face, elation that fades to concern. JJ looks tired and has lost weight since they had seen each other.

JJ's eyes widen as she takes in Emily's cut lip and black eye, but she doesn't offer a smile as she down opposite.

" _Passports from three different countries and a bank account in each one to keep you comfortable."_

Emily waits for a moment, hoping to garner at least some sort of reaction but eventually mutters a 'thank you' and stands up. She walks away quickly, holding back tears, hating JJ's coldness before spinning around and stalking back to the café. She finds that JJ hasn't moved, that she's drinking the last of Emily's latte and is unsuccessfully wiping smudged mascara from her cheeks.

"JJ, I'm sorry," Emily breathes, dragging the chair from across the table to sit down. "I'm so, _so_ sorry."

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" JJ snaps, though doesn't move away an inch.

"I didn't know what you'd think of me," is Emily's simple answer.

-o-

Later, Emily follows JJ back to her hotel room and the two sit in front of the television. They're not talking, just being, reminding Emily of simpler times. Of her time at the BAU where everything was clean with a distinct right and wrong.

Now, back wherever she was, it was a lot more complicated.

And – maybe because it's JJ and she knows she can only stay a few hours – Emily starts talking. She tells JJ how she had been enlisted into the JTF-12 taskforce, how she'd been recommended by Clyde because she was good at undercover work and everyone knew it. She tells her how some operations were easier than others; how some she was in-and-out of within a week, how others could take months. She says how she preferred being the communications person, the messenger, getting word from 'a' to 'b' rather than the one dressing up in a little, black dress and high heels. She tells her of Prague, how someone had leaked their identity and she had truly thought for a second that she wouldn't make it. How she had a scar to her shoulder blade to prove that. How Clyde had somehow managed to hurl the guy out the window and send him down four stories until he was a mess of broken bones and body parts.

She pauses and JJ squeezes her hand, tells her to keep going.

And so, she does. She tells her that the operation with Ian Doyle was her last one; that her application for the BAU had already made it past the first round and Clyde's reference was good enough that she might just get through. She tells her she approached the operation like any other, but how Ian was somehow different. Not in any overt way, she knew as well as anyone that he was more than capable of shooting a man through the eyes, but that he was _sometimes_ different. He was the man who brought her flowers every morning. He was the man who would trail a line of kisses down her stomach, who could make her toes curl in the bedsheets. She tells JJ that Emily split Doyle into two men to cope with it all and that she couldn't tell the two apart by the end of the operation, how she hated that that was true.

"Is that wrong?" Emily asks eventually, when her words have finally run out and her throat is dry.

JJ frowns for a moment before answering. _"You don't choose who you fall in love with."_

Emily smiles, recognising her own words.

"And those?" JJ continues, nodding towards Emily's cuts and bruises.

Emily's mouth twists into a grimace. "It's sorted," she responds.

"I know," JJ says flatly.

Emily raises an eyebrow. "You know?"

"Was it you?" JJ presses.

Emily waits for a few moments before answering. "No. No, it wasn't."

She doesn't go into any more detail and, though she trusts JJ with her life, doesn't reveal anything about Clyde.

* * *

 _Cheeto-breath,_

 _I don't need these. xxx_

JJ wakes up in the armchair she'd begun the night in and finds the post-it note stuck to the front of the yellow envelope. She clenches the note into scrunched ball, wants to hurl it through the window.

Instead, she takes the time to flatten the note and slides it into the sleeve of her work diary.

* * *

 **Author's notes:** Hope you enjoyed! This will be about three chapters. Please review.


End file.
